


So this is love?

by Anemone_white



Category: Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Final moments, Gilgamesh is soft, inner monologues, what is love?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:01:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26741803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemone_white/pseuds/Anemone_white
Summary: Arturia and Gilgamesh spend their last moments together overlooking a lake. So is this love?
Relationships: Gilgamesh | Archer/Artoria Pendragon | Saber
Comments: 3
Kudos: 44





	So this is love?

**Author's Note:**

> Hi y'all. I'm back to spam the fandom with this short little number. Nothing much of substance happens in the story, it's more about the feel. It's all about them feels, you know? Assume that whatever happens in this story can actually happen in the Fate series, took a bit of creative liberty as one does. Nonetheless, enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: This was betaed by me and thus may and will have errors, apologies beforehand.

Rays of afternoon light trickled through the canopy of the lush oaks. The leaves danced with the spring breeze, glistening and twinkling like emeralds. A resting figure laid at the trunk of the greatest oak in the forest. An ancient king resting upon the aged wood of an ancient tree. Thick strong roots peaked up from the Earth, a testament to the oak’s endurance of time. They were mangled and twisting, like the limbs of an old man, tired from a life of constant toiling and struggle. Nonetheless, those gargantuan roots clustered at the base of the oak and formed a nook perfectly snug for a person of small stature. It was as if the oak, in its ancient wisdom, had anticipated this guest.

And here she rested.

In the warm rays of afternoon, the light bathed golden hair that cascaded down her neck, unbound by her blue ribbon. Her hands, small but calloused, laid on the soft cotton of her blue dress. Her head rested against the trunk; eyes closed and a serenity gracing a normally tormented countenance. The forest patiently waited for their returned king to awaken.

A strong breeze pulsed through the forest. The tempo of the leave’s dance increased. They pirouetted with every swoosh until calm once again embraced them and they returned to the gait of passés and plies.

Blown in with the wind came a guest; another ancient king, older than the oak was or perhaps ever will be.

She stirred, brushing the remnants of dreams and memories from her eyes. As she opened her eyes, she saw him. Not donned in layers of gold or armor, instead, he stood silently in a tunic white as snow and loose trousers the color of sand.

“ You look different. Dare I say humbled?”

A small smile formed on his face and he outstretched his hand, she grasped it tightly and hoisted herself to stand besides him. “Death makes peasants of us all. “

Instead of replying, she quizzically looked at him, fully cognizant that his hand gently lingered in hers.

“Why do you not inquire?” he said.

She shrugged. “There is not much to ask. Is there?” Intertwining their fingers, she guided him from the ancient oak and down a scarcely treaded path. The underbrush rustled and the birds, perched high above, sang their regards as the two continued on. The oaks began to thin, and willows took their place. Soon they stood before the edge of a lake so clear that it was a mirror to the sky above. A blue, iridescently ephemeral, and languid white clouds were reflected; a picturesque halcyon day.

With a slight tug, she gestured to a spot serendipitously shaded by the long arms of a willow. As they sat, she removed her shoes and traced the cool water with her toes, causing a ripple to disturb the perfection of its surface. He followed her precedent, taking off his shoes and barely grazed the surface of the water.

He turned to her and watched as the wind blew the hair from her cheeks and her green eyes shone with tranquility. He watched as she contently gazed at the seemingly endless expanse of forest and water. He watched, breathlessly, as she faced him and graced him with a smile.

“ I missed you.”

She laughed, clear and melodic like tinkling bells. “ You have become sentimental in these last moments.”

He shook his head, “ No, not sentimental. I am simply enamored by a king worthy of my last moments.” His hand moved to rest on top of hers. It felt warm and nice. She conceded to his touch and instead girlishly swung her legs, water splashing lightly against both their skins.

“ The lines between love, hate and lust are quite indiscernible. I’m certain I hated you for most of our acquaintance.”

“Hmm,” he hummed contemplatively as he traced the callouses of her hand. It appeared delicate in its daintiness, but it was a hand that welded the legendary Excalibur and the hand that toiled for the salvation of an entire kingdom. He lifted it to his lips and placed, one, two, gentle kisses to the palm that tried to gasp more than it could hold. “Certainly we are quite different, but that magnifies our pull towards each other.”

She tilted her head, waiting for him to continue.

“ You are stern while I am indulgent. You are selfless while I am selfish.” She continued smiling at him, amused by his choice of words. “ However, in our endless litany of differences, we do share one commonality; the loneliness of a king. “

Sliding closer, she leaned against his lean frame. Her head on his shoulder, hands still intertwined. “ Then we are kindred spirits, cursed in our past lives to be surrounded by so many and yet feel so incredibly alone.” She closed her eyes. “ Nonetheless, that is a king’s burden. A pathetic lot, aren’t we?”

He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. Her soft breath, the crisp smell of forest, the warmth of her body as it seeped into his. Looking out across the picturesque lake, he etched this moment into his memory. “ You truly are too good for me. A treasure meant to be gazed up and never possessed.”

Her green eyes flickered open, meeting the gaze of his as she turned towards him. He looked at her so tenderly, as if the manifestation of the world’s beauty sat before him. He cupped her face, holding it gently, afraid it would crumble in his grasp. Lowering his forehead, he touched it to hers and closed his eyes. “ I will soon leave this place. Let me have this last moment with you.”

She noticed him dematerializing, his feet already fading into the afternoon light.

“ Ar….”

“Arturia, will you say my name one last time?”

“ Gilgamesh, it will be alright. I’m here.” She said looping her arms around his neck and hugging him. “ You’re….. you were not entirely insufferable.” She mumbled into his tunic. His legs were now gone.

Gilgamesh let out a boisterous laugh, “I should have proposed one last time if I knew your current sentiments. Alas, this is our fate. Would you say yes if I asked in another lifetime?”

She gazed at him now; his chest had vanished. “ Perhaps.” She said softly, “ if it is our fate.”

“ I see.” He said smiling wide and pure. “ Then may I be blessed with another life.” The dematerialization was nearly complete. He caressed her cheek one last time, longing to be blessed by her light indefinitely.

His mouth moved but no sound came out. In an instant, Gilgamesh left Avalon. Returning to the waiting room of the Holy Grail, if it so saw fit to call him again.

Arturia touched her face, the feel of his hand still fresh, and recounted the words he mouthed to her. She blushed. He had become sentimental with age.

Gilgamesh was not perfect, but neither was she. If they met again, she would let herself indulge, let herself fall and feel. If that was to be their fate.

\---

In those moments after Gilgamesh’s farewell, Arturia leaned back and inelegantly fell into the embrace of the verdant grass. The leaves of the willow graciously blocked the sun from shining into her eyes as she gazed absentmindedly upwards. Now that she had arrived in Avalon, time was abundant. Hand in hand with that was the time to contemplate the minutiae of life she never cared to before. Specifically this.

Love.

The impetus for great calamities, the reason for unbounded joy, a contentious and capricious word. She had only experienced the former, and so her opinion on the matter had been grim and unhopeful. Truthfully, she had long ago resigned herself to be undeserving of love. Her father, the great Uther Pendragon, wanted to pass his legacy to a male heir. Her mother, Igraine, wanted nothing but to obsequiously please Uther. She had been the sole progeny and their greatest disappointment. The fledgling nation of Britain’s future rested on the shoulders of an unwanted and unloved girl.

Arturia reasoned that Igraine must have loved her in the manner all mothers do. And her father must have had some love left in that stone heart of his; the morsel that the Saxon’s left unscathed. That was their definition of love, but what was hers?

Love was a contentious and peculiar thing. Was the love Gilgamesh eluded to the love she felt for her kingdom? Or was it closer to the affection she held for her daringly hawk, held in the rooks of Sir Ector’s manor? When Cully failed to wake that dreary autumn morning, she had been inconsolable. Surely, that must have been love as well.

The memories flittered to and fro, no rhyme or reason to which flower was picked in this garden of memories. Now, the image of lingering glances exchanged by Guinevere and Lancelot surfaced. Arturia’s heart constricted at the reminder of two people, so cared for by her and so fervently devoted to her, denied joy on her behalf. Was that love? To be able to break your own heart because you loved the other person too much? No, that was selfishness.

She then thought of her good-natured but eccentric mentor, Merlin. The mere thought of him stirred a sigh within her. Years of antics, from benign pranks to the outlandish demands of a man well versed in the ways of infuriating others, had conditioned her to sigh unconsciously. Yet, she held nothing but fondness for the mage who likely increased her blood pressure. Could infuriation equate to love as well?

A wind passed through, sending the edge of her skirt and hair fluttering in a frenzy. Unbound and untamed, reminiscent of him. 

It was a complicated feeling. She loathed him during their first encounters, oh so arrogant and selfish. He dared proclaim the king was above all; the masses merely tools to serve his purpose. His ideologies refuted the core of her own beliefs. The needs of the many over the few, that was the mantra she recited sanctimoniously. Only later would she realize the naivety and idealism of her ostensibly flawed martyrdom.

The loathing she associated with him turned into envy that was thinly masked as annoyance. Somehow, Gilgamesh had made being recalcitrant desirable. Diplomacy and propriety be damned, she wanted to be free. Even though her emotional growth had been stunted in her youth, the cold attitude of Igraine and the events following her removing Excalibur from the stone immediately coming to mind, she knew envy. And Arturia had been green with it.

In the most unexpected of turns, envy become a warped construct of respect. He carried himself in the usual brash and self-entitled manner, but something had changed, she had changed. Trivialities bored him and he abhorred expending energy on them, however, when he deemed you worthy, when you have earned HIS respect, a new side of him was revealed. The king of heroes never pulled his punches in a match that mattered. He treated her as an adversary worthy of his full strength. With every kick, every sword implanted in her, every drop of blood spilled, she was validated. He desired her because she was a woman, because she was fierce, because she was strong. He wanted her for her and somehow that softened the edges of all those years in which she felt as if she was never enough. It brought her joy, no matter how insignificant it may appear, that he acknowledged her femininity and strength.

Was validation, love?

He saw her and reveled in her. It felt oddly pleasant to be desired for her beauty. He made her feel normal, in a way a girl king never could be. Perhaps that's what she needed out of love all along, to be seen, to be acknowledged, to be courted and loved like those maidens of the court waiting for their prince charming.

But Gilgamesh wasn’t prince charming. It was wrong of him to be so demanding. It was wrong of him to expect the world, to expect her to dance to his tune.

Without hesitation, he stabbed her with blades from his gates. Without hesitation, he condescendingly denounced her ideals. Every rational bone in her body warned her of his vileness and his egotism. It screamed that he never loved you, that you never loved him! It was all wrong! Wrong! Wrong!

But we’re all messed up in our own ways and the heart wants what it wants.

So this is love? Or the closet thing someone whose heart had never truly been whole, could experience.

**Author's Note:**

> I really just want to say that the Gil x Arturia ship is actually very twisted and unhealthy, but goddamn it if that isn't what makes it so interesting. Arturia is looking for all the wrong things but broken people usually are. One day I hope to write a more fleshed out version of how not okay both Gilgamesh and Arturia are. Ideally, it would expanded on how broken people can find love and be happy in their own way, but that is a behemoth to tackle another day. I hope you guys liked it and stay safe everyone!


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